


The Dragon and the Sword

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Series: Follow any dragon, worship any god [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Typical Racism, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 17:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13485936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: Baelor and Maekar find the egg in the deeps below Dragonstone, and agree to keep it secret - to keep it away from Grandfather.But then Grandfather gifts the sword of Kings to proud Daemon, and the gods see fit to spoil the secret.





	The Dragon and the Sword

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Riana1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riana1/gifts), [moonlitgleek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitgleek/gifts), [grumkin_snark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/gifts).



> From Riana, to Sam and Laurel, via me.

**I.**

 

Baelor and Maekar find the egg together.

It’s beautiful, the same rich, deep golden-orange as the Martell standard, shining with gold when the light catches it just so. 

It’s nothing at all like the other eggs that have been found, since the dragons died. It’s bright where they are dull, and does not weigh like heavy basalt.

More than that, it’s warm.

 

**II.**

 

Grandfather is a cruel man. Baelor has known this all his life, and has long since given up paying it any mind.

That is why he and Maekar agree to tell only their lady mother about the egg. She can tell their lord father, and that means silly Rhaegel and sour Aerys will not find out, and cannot let it slip around Grandmother, or Grand-Uncle Aemon. Grandfather will know Grandmother has a secret, and will find a way of dragging it out of her. 

Baelor is wary of any path that will cause Grandmother more pain. He is only ten, but he has seen the way she flinches away from Grandfather. He has never seen his mother flinch so from his father, and holds his father to be the very best of men, no matter what they say at court.

“Oh, my loves,” Mama says, one hand to Baelor’s cheek and the other to Maekar’s - Maekar, who leans into her touch, turning into her affection like a blossom into the sun. Maekar is only four, and already holds himself apart from all but a small, careful few. “Wherever did you find such a thing?”

“In the deeps below the castle,” Maekar says eagerly. “Baelor and I play there, sometimes, Mama.”

“Do you indeed?” Mama says, smiling because she knows well that Father forbade them from playing in the deep cellars below the keep. “Well, my loves, what shall we do with this treasure of yours? Where shall we keep it secret and safe?”

Baelor wants to say,  _ send it to Uncle Maron,  _ but even that would not keep it safe if Grandfather were to hear of it. 

“Here, Mama,” he says. “Here, with us, on Dragonstone.”

 

**III.**

 

They are called to court for a great tourney when Baelor is twelve, and Maekar, in his paranoia, brings the egg.

“Better it be with us,” he says, “than alone on Dragonstone.”

Their warm little egg travels with them everywhere, tucked away in Baelor’s trunk one way and Maekar’s the other. They never leave it alone, and even today, while Baelor jousts with the other squires and Maekar acts as his page, they keep it tucked neatly into the spare caparisons for Baelor’s chargers and the spare surcoats for over his armour. When the jousting was done - victory in Baelor’s hands, the crown for the Queen of Love and Beauty gifted to his betrothed, smiling Jena come a-visiting from Blackhaven and seated by Mama’s side - they transferred it to Mama’s jewel chest, where it would be guarded well by men loyal to Father. 

“There you are,” Father says, Aerys tucked against his left and Mama under his right arm. “Here we thought you were lost - come, my lads, eat!” 

Baelor settles on the bench beside Rhaegel, Maekar on his other side, and smiles down the table to Jena, whose red hair suits the forget-me-nots and periwinkles and lavender of the crown he bestowed upon her earlier in the day. She smiles back, and raises her cup, and Baelor is mortified to find himself blushing at her attentions.

Grandfather the King is away on his throne, Grandmother sitting nearest him and Grand-Uncle Aemon standing between them, as silent and unmoving as ever. Baelor wishes Grand-Uncle Aemon were truly the Dragonknight he is named, for Grandmother’s sake. On the far side of the hall from Baelor and his family, there is a motley of false arms and half-Targaryens, legal and bastard, claimed and unclaimed. 

Among that crowd sits Daemon, fierce and proud and near Baelor’s twin in age, but his opposite in all other things. Unclaimed, unacknowledged, but  _ known.  _ More a Targaryen in look than Baelor and his brothers could ever have been, not with Mama’s dark hair for him and Rhaegel and her dark eyes for Aerys and the deep brown of her skin warming all their faces from ghostly Valyrian pale.

Daemon.  _ Daemon.  _ Baelor does not hate, it is not in his heart to do so, but he fears what Daemon might become. He fears the poison Daena of the Maidenvault dripped in her son’s ear, fears the way people look to Daemon and are well pleased, but look to him and are left wanting solely for how close a resemblance he bears to his mother’s House.

“My son,” Grandfather booms, heaving himself from his throne and descending to the floor below. “Rise, boy.”

Father frowns, drawing Mama closer still, gathering Aerys tighter against his side, and Baelor does the same to Rhaegel and Maekar. Grandmother’s face flushes with shame, and Grand-Uncle Aemon looks to the floor.

Daemon, away among the motley, rises. Daemon, proud where he ought to be cowed by bastardy, approaches the throne.

“He would not dare,” Mama murmurs, lower than a whisper, louder than may be wise. “Surely-”

But Grandfather  _ would  _ dare. Grandfather  _ is  _ daring.

“A son worthy of the sword of kings!” Grandfather roars, as Daemon rises  _ Ser  _ Daemon, and grasps the hilt offered him by the King.

Blackfyre. The Conqueror’s sword in Daemon’s hand.

“But that ought to be  _ your _ sword,” Maekar whispers to Baelor, furious as only a boy of six can be. “Baelor, tell him-”

“Hush, little brother,” Baelor chastens him. “Not here. Not now.”

Daemon is not quite so tall as Baelor, but he is broader - with sword in hand, he may well be Baelor’s better. Were this sword  _ any _ other sword, Baelor would not begrudge it to him. But this is not  _ just  _ a sword. This is the sword that has been the mark of the KIng since Alyssa Velaryon stole it away with her children, when the last of the Conquerors still breathed.

This is the sword that could unmake Father. This is the sword that could make Baelor’s fears of Daemon into something more than nightmares.

 

**IV.**

 

Maekar insists on climbing into Baelor’s bed, that night, while Mama and Father are whispering together in the solar. Their suite of rooms is extensive, five bedchambers and a solar and a study  _ and  _ a dining room, and it is only so fine because it is one of the very few things on which Grandmother ever insists. 

But Maekar still climbs into Baelor’s bed that night, tucking himself under Baelor’s arm with the egg warm between their chests.

“What does it mean, Baelor?” he asks, small hand clutching tight at Baelor’s nightshirt. “Will Grandfather hurt Father, Baelor?”

“Nay, Maekar, he will not hurt Father,” Baelor promises, although he knows no such truth. “But we must be wary, little brother - there are many who will look now to Daemon where they ought look to Father, but we should be safe.”

_ For now.  _

“Do you wish to sleep here tonight, little brother?” he asks gently, nudging a kiss to Maekar’s starlight-fair hair. “We could have Aerys and Rhaegel join us, if you wish.”

Maekar and Aerys don’t get on at all, usually, one too fierce and the other too bookish, but Maekar likes to have them all close by when he is upset - and Baelor cannot remember when last his little brother was so upset.

“No,” Maekar says. “I will go to Rhaegel, for tomorrow you will have to ride again, and you will need your rest.”

“Here, then, Maekar,” Baelor says, sitting up and wrapping his spare blanket around Maekar’s shoulders. “Will you take the egg?”

“Nay, Baelor,” Maekar says, tugging the blanket up tight round his neck like one of Mama’s heavy shawls. “Keep it tonight - Rhaegel and I will be warm enough.”

 

**V.**

 

A crack wakes Baelor just as dawn breaks, and he wonders for a moment if it is lightning that he hears, and thinks then of Jena, with lightning on her arms and something like a storm in her blushing smiles.

And then-

The rasp of a rough tongue, like a cat’s, startles him fully awake.

_ “Scree?” _

“Gods preserve us,” he manages, unsure what else to say to the tiny little sweetling standing on his chest, the warm deep orange of a Martell standard, all limned in sunlight-gold. “Hello, you.”

 

**VI.**

 

“Maerya,” Father says, watching Baelor’s sweetling curl around his wrist and coo. “I see that, lad. I see it well.”

“Do you disapprove?” Baelor asks, worried - will Mama take insult to Baelor naming his dragon for her foremother? He hadn’t thought of that, had thought only that a dragon in her colours, with eyes as clever as hers, should bear a name from her House as much as theirs-

“No, Baelor, I do not disapprove, not even a little,” Father assures him. “It’s as good a name as I can imagine for a dragon as lovely as yours.”

Aerys and Rhaegel are watching wide-eyed from across the table, but Maekar is kneeling on his chair at Baelor’s side, swaying to keep his eyes firmly on Maerya’s, violet on gold. 

“We ought to bring her to the tourney grounds,” Maekar announces. “And show everyone how fine she is. Don’t you think, Father?”

Father considers this, looking up when Mama enters - back from tending to Grandmother, who always suffers after Grandfather’s grandest shows - and smiling.

“Do you know, boys,” he says, taking Mama’s hand and leaning into the hand she presses to his always-aching spine as he rises. “I cannot imagine anything better than bringing little Maerya to the tourney grounds. Come, dress, make yourselves ready - there is much sport to be had on a day like today.”

 

**VII.**

 

No one notices, at first.

Maerya sits easily on Baelor’s shoulder, glinting and gleaming like a fantastic brooch, peeping down at Maekar and up at Father, but most of all to Mama, preening and cheeping whenever Mama smiles or pets her.

Her little tail curls around Baelor’s ear, and she spreads her wings for balance as she peers around, and it is thus that Jena finds them.

“Your Highness, good mor- is that a  _ dragon?” _

“Lady Jena,” Baelor says, bowing as best he can without letting his sweetling fall. “Her name is Maerya - say hello, little one.”

Maerya peeps at Jena, then hides her face behind one of her wings as if shy.

“She matches my hair,” Jena laughs, stepping closer than she ever has before. Her perfume is salt-sweet, and her hair catches the sun like an open flame. “Where did you find her?  _ How _ did you find her, my lord?”

“My brother and I found her egg on Dragonstone,” he admits. “And she woke for me last night - not long before the dawn, so this morning, really.”

“How beautiful she is,” Jena says, sounding thrilled as she holds out her hand to Maerya, offering the inside of her wrist for the scent. “How absolutely lovely.”

Baelor, never looking away from Jena, is inclined to agree, and blushes just for the thought.

 

**VIII.**

 

Grandmother notices first, of those gathered in the royal box.

She is sitting to one side of Grandfather, Daemon to the other, leaving Father no choice but to sit at the Queen’s left hand, when he ought to be at the King’s right.

Blackfyre is fastened naked to Daemon’s belt, shining dark and striking. 

Grandmother’s eyes, when they settle on Maerya, are bright and stunned.

“Good morning, all,” Father says mildly. “Your Grace, Mama, little brother.”

Grandfather ignores him, Daemon scowls, and Grandmother tips up her cheek for a kiss, which Father gladly grants her. 

“And what new guest is this?” Grandmother asks softly, leaning around Father to smile at Baelor, and beckon him close. “Come here, sweetling, let me greet your new friend.”

Maerya moves easily to his wrist, coiling her tail round his thumb and splaying her wings to show off for Grandmother, chirping and crooning in delight as Grandmother fawns over her.

“What is  _ that?” _

Grandfather’s face is gone the particular puce it only goes when he is in a true rage, and Daemon’s is the same. To them, Maerya hisses, and scurries back up Baelor’s arm to perch once more on his shoulder, tail round his ear.

“She is a dragon, Your Grace,” Baelor says. “A hatchling -  _ my  _ hatchling,” he adds, seeing Daemon ready to speak and not wanting to risk a fight over Maerya’s ownership before she is strong enough to fight her corner. “She woke from the stone only this morning.”

Grandfather opens his mouth once more, likely to howl his displeasure, but Maerya beats him to it by letting forth an ungodly screech from her tiny mouth.

Silence drops over the whole of the stands like a velvet curtain, and Baelor cannot help but smile.

“A true Targaryen,” he says to Maerya. “Couldn’t keep quiet even just for a morning.”

 

**IX.**

 

Dragonstone echoes with Maerya’s screams as Baelor brings her round, settling her to glide into the roost atop the drum tower. Maekar must have sent some of the lads up ahead of him, because there’s an aurochs waiting for her, dead and still steaming, and Baelor laughs at her crows of delight as he slides from the saddle.

“A fine way to spend the day before your wedding,” Mama calls, safe at the door with Maekar just a little ahead of her - of everyone, they are Maerya’s favourites, Mama, Maekar, and Jena, and Baelor wonders how much of that comes from him - he is seventeen now, a man grown, and must acknowledge when he shows an unfair preference for one brother over the others. “Will you and your sweetling be riding on ahead of us in the morning, Baelor?”

“Of course, Mama,” he says, tugging the saddle from Maerya’s shoulders as she feasts. “Why? Has Father asked that we not?”

Father has grown warier of King’s Landing than ever, since Daenerys’ wedding - Daemon’s outburst after his defeat had shamed himself, had shamed his lady wife, and had shamed Father and Daenerys both. There had been little outcry, though, and that had made them all nervous, for Daemon’s fair face and courtly manners have drawn more allies than any of them could possibly like.

Daemon, who bears the sword of Kings like a crown. Daemon, who has made more than one attempt to claim Maerya, and who bears the scars all across his shield arm and chest for his troubles.

“Daemon has been acting up again,” Maekar supplies. “Father will meet you at the dragonpit, he said, so dress well.”

Father coming to the dragonpit, which means  _ court  _ coming to the dragonpit - Daemon among them, and likely Aegor as well, but also Aerys and Rhaegel, who both love Maerya so much, and plenty of other men, influential men who may well be swayed from ever taking Daemon’s side, if Baelor plays it  _ just  _ so.

 

**X.**

 

Valarr is born with Maerya crowing away atop the drum tower, Jena screaming their firstborn into the world on a blindingly sunny morning, three weeks after Baelor’s twentieth birthday and three weeks before Jena’s.

“You’ll miss Rhaegel’s wedding if you don’t leave soon,” Jena croaks, their  _ son _ suckling at her breast as she smiles at Baelor with tired eyes. “Go, love, the babe and I will still be here when you return.”

“Maerya will bear me to King’s Landing in the morning,” Baelor promises. “For now, let us savour this.”

A dragon roosting atop his castle, a beautiful son in his beautiful wife’s arms - what threat is Daemon  _ Blackfyre _ against that? 

What is a sword to a  _ dragon? _


End file.
